


halcyon days

by diydynamite (orphan_account)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA AU, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-14 20:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8028637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/diydynamite
Summary: He misses the crowing excitement, the petty celebrations back in the penthouse, curses dropped and shots downed, warm bodies and loud voices, nothing but home. Gavin wishes he could’ve bottled the feeling, drowned himself in it on the dark, lonely nights that have become far too frequent.(Or, the rise and fall of the Fake AH Crew.)





	halcyon days

**Author's Note:**

> based on the poem halcyon days:
> 
> We missed it.  
> Those sun-drenched bodies,  
> love like honey into  
> each other’s mouths.  
> We kissed like we were  
> licking spoons clean.  
> We lost it but God,  
> I’ll think of you.  
> I’ll think of you there.  
> I promise.  
> \- Halcyon Days, Ezra T.

“Sir? A drink for you?”

Gavin blinks, and the world comes back into focus. The first-class compartment is quiet as the plane soars above the clouds, late afternoon sun painting the white landscape a pure, brilliant gold, a strange tranquility hanging in the air as if all life had paused, as if time itself had stopped in this one moment. Even the white walls of the cabin are dyed a muted yellow, rays filtering through the unshaded windows and breathing soft light in. He nods, flashes a charming grin at the attendant, and murmurs, “Whiskey, please.” After everything, after all of it, he doesn’t want to be sober. The attendant smiles back, already beguiled, or maybe just grateful to have a passenger who isn’t a rude, arrogant snob. The faceted glass is cool in his hand, its ridges digging into his palm, and the smooth amber liquid is dry on the back of his throat, burning its way down. He savours it, draws it out, and tries to summon the courage to face the thoughts that have been lurking in the back of his mind for longer than he’d like to admit. The sharp tang of whiskey fills his nose, and he leans back, cushy chair sighing around him, and allows them to wash over him.

Of course, he misses those days. The days when they were all together, united in crime and excitement, in the glory thrill of a successful heist or the giddy laughter in a car going a hundred miles an hour, sunscreen open and gunfire rattling through the air, bills from half-opened bags swirling in the wind, fluttering out into the air as they speed around winding roads in the country, the wail of sirens getting softer and softer as the getaway car travels familiar escape routes. He misses the crowing excitement, the petty celebrations back in the penthouse, curses dropped and shots downed, warm bodies and loud voices, nothing but home. Gavin wishes he could’ve bottled the feeling, drowned himself in it on the dark, lonely nights that have become far too frequent, but it’s gone, fleeting like the wind, and now- now he’ll probably never feel it again.

He misses the occasional quiet afternoon in the penthouse, where everyone’s out, probably committing felonies, and it’s just him and one or two of them. Ray’s always on the sofa, curled up in his violet hoodie, DS trilling ever so often, always free for a quick chat or just to sit in comfortable silence. When Gavin has work to do, he'll pad out to the living room and sit beside him, tuck his feet under Ray’s thighs or in his lap and open his laptop. Other times, if Ray's just come back from a job, Gavin’ll come into the living room and he'll be lying back on the sofa, bong in hand, lazy trails of smoke leaking from his mouth. He'll greet Gavin with a mellow smirk, and if he's feeling like it, he’ll shotgun the smoke down Gavin’s throat, a flimsy excuse to tangle limbs and make out for hours, lazy and mindless, until their lips are bruised and their cheeks are flushed and the world is blurred around the edges. Gavin’s never been one for drugs himself, but Ray’s soft mouth is an incredibly persuasive argument on its own.

Ryan’s usually in his room, when he’s not out on a job, and Gavin will stand in the door, watch the yellow sunlight fall through the window, reflect off his broad frame, gleam in the blades he sharpens in quiet moments. Ryan knows, of course, that he’s there, will turn eventually, a silent invitation for Gavin to join him, and they’ll sit together, Ryan performing the most mundane of tasks and Gavin just watching. They’ll talk occasionally, a murmured word here and there in quiet voices, but most of the time a calm silence settles between them. Sometimes, when Ryan is sitting on the bed, reading by the light of the sun, he’ll look at Gavin, hovering in the doorway, and pat the covers, and he needs no further invitation, will pad over to the bed in socked feet and curl in beside him, fall asleep to the innate knowledge that someone he trusts, wholly and completely, is watching over him.

Some afternoons, when Jack and Geoff are free, he goes out with them. Jack will take them up in his copter, the silver chrome one Geoff got him for his birthday, and they’ll fly over the city, their city, the one that they own. They’ll look over Los Santos, bathed in brilliant gold, and laugh together, shouting to be heard over the chopping blades. When they land, Gavin leaps on Jack’s shoulders, demands he carry him, and Jack just laughs and heaves him onto the tarmac. Geoff takes them in his convertible to a diner, the one that he loves dearly, claims it’s the only authentic, genuine American diner left. He’ll clap hands with Sal, the owner, and they’ll crowd into the booth, Gavin leaning into Geoff or curled into Jack’s side, and they’ll talk about how far they’ve come, about how much farther still they’ll go, about the heights they’ll reach, with their city in the palm of their hand and the sky spread out before them for the taking.

And some days, less than he’d like yet more than he knows he deserves, Michael takes him for swimmy bevs. They'll drag a cooler to the roof, stock up on beers and riot punches, icy cold and as jarring as the handful of ice Michael stuffs down his shirt in retaliation for something or the other, and the fond smirk he’ll get when Gavin jumps around squawking is completely worth it. The golden sunlight ripples across blue water and throws light in every direction as they survey the pool, perched atop a roof, under a boundless azure sky. The shock of cold as they dive in is temporary, warm sun and cool water contrasting in the best way. They'll laugh, splash at each other and do laps, up and down and up and down until they’re tired, and Michael gets a wicked glint in his eyes just before he wrestles Gavin into a headlock, dunks him under water and lets him come up by himself, spluttering and yelling. They'll tussle for a while, warm, slippery skin and wild flailing, sending wave after wave of water over the edge of the glass barrier that’s the only thing between them and certain death forty stories below. Gavin will put up a valiant effort, never goes easy on purpose, but Michael pins him in the end; no surprise there, Mogar has always been the destructive force, as explosive as his work, and they all know Gavin’s his balancing force, the water (and occasionally oil) to his fire, the joy to his rage, the nice to his dynamite. Michael gets mad at him, of course, he always does, but he never even tries to hide the fondness in his voice now, and it shows through the exasperation like a silver lining through a storm cloud. They’ll make out for a while, languid movements without any hurry, lips warm and slick, hot breaths mingling, little giggles escaping between kisses as they tread water slowly, the pop of little waves breaking over the side mingling with faint traffic from below.

 

And Gavin doesn’t think- well, doesn’t want to think that it was any of them. He doesn’t want to think that any of his five favourite people in the entire world could have done it, could have sold them out, not now, not ever, but being a criminal hacker, you learn to wrap your mind around seemingly impossible information quick, and when he’d come stumbling out of his room, gun in hand, into the living room where they all sat laughing, he’d had to understand that his world had ended.

Even then, it'd been so hard. They'd gathered around him with those understanding, caring eyes and concerned voices. Jack had sandwiched him between Geoff and himself, a solid, warm presence anchoring him, and they'd looked at him, just waited for him to destroy everything they'd built together. “We have a mole.” The words sat heavy, ominous, painfully stark in the shocked silence. Of course, nobody pointed fingers. Geoff left the room, but not before thumbing away his tears and murmuring that he would get to the bottom of it, that he promised it would be alright. And Gavin wasn't stupid. He wasn't a child, no matter how much he acted like one, no matter how the crew babied him, and he knew the facts. It could've only been someone in their six, someone they all trusted, let into every single plan, heist, secret.

Their rivals had destroyed them. Every one of their warehouses were robbed, every single safehouse blown to smithereens. They'd gone after people next, and Geoff had dismissed everyone, even the B-Team. He hadn't been able to handle watching his employees and friends die for him, some would say a sign that his reign was coming to an end. Everything they were, everything they’d stood for, everything they’d managed to accomplish, to achieve, lay in blazing ruins at their feet, and it wasn’t long before the cracks began to show. The tensions had just kept rising, like water boiling in a pot, it'd quickly overflowed, and the living room had housed countless screaming matches between all of them, nobody daring to outright point fingers but everyone suspecting one another.

Ray broke first. He’d run, taking everything he had, and was gone in the morning, two weeks later. Michael had checked his room in the morning when he didn't come stumbling out as usual, and come out pale, shaking with rage and fear and something else, something nasty. “He's gone.” They’d crowded into his room, as if he was hiding somewhere and was about to pop out from behind the furniture, as if he was just out getting more weed from his favourite dealer and would walk through the door at any moment.

He hadn’t.

They’d waited, kept waiting weeks after they knew he was long gone. They’d waited and waited and waited, and every day was another wasted hope. Geoff and Jack busied themselves with rebuilding, gathering all they had left, calling in favours and figuring out who was still loyal to them. Gavin threw himself into his work, typing away at his laptop day and night to find out who the hell this mole was. Michael and Ryan, the closest to Ray, spent almost all their time together now, sleeping and eating and carrying out hits together, more or less closing off to the rest of them, and Gavin had a sneaking suspicion they were looking for Ray.

Gavin hadn't been able to go into his room, the first week. He'd stand in the doorway, keep expecting Ray to be lying there on his bed, or sitting at his desk, controller in hand, beating some game into the dust, and he just wouldn't be there, would never be there again. The idea was so visceral, so shocking that Gavin hadn't been able to bear it for more than a few minutes. One night, he'd been pacing a rut into his floor and heard a shuffling, rustling sound from his room. He'd speeded around the corner and into Ray’s room, where, for one glorious moment, Ray was sitting there on his bed. Gavin almost cried out, hands reaching for him, when he abruptly recognised the build of the figure in front of him. Jack was sitting, back to the wall, cross legged on the bed, fumbling with something in his hands. He'd looked up at Gavin, nodded and patted the bedspread next to him, and Gavin had clambered onto it, watching curiously as Jack clicked a lighter, the tiny flame serving to illuminate the elegant glass bong in his hand, bowl properly packed and all. The smell of weed filled the room once more, and Gavin couldn't help the tears that fill his eyes at the familiar scent. Jack had expertly taken a hit, turned to him and shotgunned the smoke into his slack mouth. It's different, certainly, from the way Ray did it, but the brush of Jack’s beard against his own is comforting and he leans into the warm hands cupping his jaw. They'd fallen asleep like that, smoking down the entire bowl before setting it aside, soft, murmured words floating high around their heads as he kissed Jack, lips soft and grounding.

In the morning, Jack isn't next to him anymore, but Gavin can hear him talking to Geoff in the other room, and sits up. The bong bumps against his hand, and he thinks about it for a moment, before pocketing it, along with the small packet of weed.

 

-

 

Gavin hadn’t been able to sleep that night, hadn’t been able to sleep any of the nights since Ray had left, but it was entirely coincidence that he’d left his room to get a glass of water, only to stop short at the tall figure standing in the doorway. The moonlight was stark white, gleaming on the polished floors and casting gentle shadows along the walls. Far below their penthouse, cars honked and screeched, and the sounds of a city that never sleeps settling down for the night whispered through the silence of the apartment. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the velvet sky was punctuated with a million twinkling stars, occasionally tracking the movement of a plane taking off, red lights blinking their way across the dark expanse. The penthouse was quiet, almost like time itself has stood still between one breath and the next.

He'd known, of course, had guessed that Ryan would be the next to leave; with his mercenary senses screaming at him to jump the sinking ship, he's surprised he stayed this long. Still, the reality strikes him then: everything they had, everything they were working for, working towards is gone, dust in the wind. They'll never live the golden days again. The plaster’s peeling, the cracks are showing, and it's all too clear that they were built on a foundation of sand, a Jenga tower that needed just a push to come tumbling all the way down. He takes a useless step towards Ryan, reaches out his hand in an attempt to- what, grab him? Physically prevent him from leaving? Ryan was a deadly killer, he could take down Gavin blindfolded with both arms tied behind his back. A choked sob bubbles up, and he sees Ryan take a step, drop his bag and walk forward, shedding the shadows of the corridor in favour of the moonlight shining bright through a window, to Gavin, wrapping his arms around him. It's bittersweet, knowing that it's the last time he’ll ever be held like this, by Ryan, who, for all his bluster and act, has never been anything but gentle towards them, always kind and caring, checking up on each of them regularly. Where others see the Vagabond, mysterious murderer, Gavin sees Ryan, with his soft touches and sheepish words, standing in the kitchen with an apron that reads “Kiss the Cook”, flipping pancakes to feed his crew, sitting in the bathroom, face scrunched, as Gavin fumbles his way through Ryan’s face paint, carrying him to safety when they’re caught in an unexpected gunfight, before whipping out his handgun and rolling back out into the thick of it. He pulls back, looks at Ryan, looming terrifyingly large in his skull mask, a painful reminder of the first time they met. Gavin can't help it, he reaches up and pulls it off, tilts his painted face down and kisses him hard, almost a plea, as if he could convince him to stay. Ryan’s lips are warm against his, matching his desperation, the acrid taste of his face paint mingling with the saltiness of Gavin’s tears, and it's messy and awful but Gavin never wants to stop.

“Don't go.” His voice breaks, and Ryan hushes him, holding him close as he cries. Through the tears, he sees Ryan’s own eyes, icy blue and filled with regret, with anguish; he may have been the last to open up, the hardest to coax into trusting their crew, but Gavin knows they crawled their way under his skin, nestled under his rib cage and and made themselves a home, made him a home with them, and for a moment, he thinks Ryan’s wavering, but the mercenary steps back, back into the shadows away from the moonlight, and murmurs, “I'm sorry.” He picks up his bag and turns away, strides out the door as if he'll be tempted to stay if he remains any longer, and Gavin is left standing, tear tracks streaking his cheeks, still clutching Ryan’s skull mask uselessly, helplessly.

He goes back to bed.

 

-

 

Michael is next. Gavin doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about the rages they’d hear from the next room, the endless brap-brap-brap of gunfire from the shooting range, the sound of glass smashing, the empty liquor bottles scattered around the apartment, the anger and hurt and fear that ricochet around in Michael’s brain every moment he's awake. He sneaks into Michael’s room at night, prays and hopes that he won't throw him out and wake the others up, but as always, Michael defies expectations, blinking awake and shifting to make a space for Gavin to crawl into. There's a solace that washes over him, a peace that he feels when he's in Michael’s arms, as if nothing can touch him there, as if truth and time have no hold over him in those moments, more and more fleeting as they are. He’ll let Gavin cup his chin, press butterfly kisses to his freckles and mouth along his jaw, run his fingers through Gavin’s hair, tug on it lightly and murmur, “My boy.”

For a while, it's enough.

Then one night, Michael comes into his room. Gavin’s almost asleep for the first time in weeks, but he's awake immediately, an unfortunate side effect of being a high profile criminal. He recognises Michael’s build, squints through the darkness and whispers, “Boi?”

“Hey, Gavvy. Up for a lil nighttime jaunt?”

Of course he is. Gavin slides out of bed, snags the leather jacket with the embroidered pattern that Michael had gotten everyone for Christmas and slips his hand into Michael’s. They're quiet in the lift, as if Jack and Geoff can hear them, eight stories down, but then they commandeer a red convertible that Geoff loves like a baby and blast 80s music while doing a hundred miles around Los Santos, and Gavin almost believes everything is going to be okay. They rob a convenience store, mostly because Michael wanted booze and Gavin wants those coconut water cartons that taste like nectar from the gods, and take the money the terrified cashier pushes at them almost as an afterthought. Gavin pops him in the head as they're leaving, and Michael grins wickedly at him. They speed away in the convertible, away from the flashing blue and red lights, around and around, loud horns and shouting and city lights, until they lose the cops, and then out of the city limits, leaving behind the brightly lit streets for darker, empty roads. Michael’s in a shockingly good mood, laughing at Gavin’s clumsiness and gazing at him with such undisguised affection he has to look away, and Gavin lets himself start to hope, that maybe his Michael was back. They drive to a lookout point just outside city limits, and Michael fucks him in the backseat while teenagers in their cars are making out a few feet away. They prep hastily, movements easy with familiarity, and then Michael’s buried himself to the hilt in Gavin’s arse, snapping his hips hard and fast, overwhelming Gavin with pure sensation. He comes untouched, gasping out Michael’s name, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the leather upholstery (and oh god, Geoff is going to slaughter them). Michael follows quickly, groaning into his shoulder and lying on top of him for a long moment, before they disentangle themselves and Michael tosses the used condom out the car window. The teenagers in the other car are staring, wide-eyed, and Gavin grins lazily, flips them off with one hand and draws Michael back in with the other hand on the back of his neck to slip his tongue into his mouth. They make it home, eventually, giggling like children, stifling their laughter by pressing their mouths together, and he's sure they've woken up Jack, but who cares, because the old Michael, his Michael, is back. Gavin crawls into Michael’s bed and kisses him until they both drift off.

The next day, Michael’s gone.

He's still there in the morning, wakes Gavin up with a filthy kiss before shoving him out of bed and commanding him to brush his teeth. He slips into the kitchen, hugs Jack from behind where he's standing at the stove making breakfast and presses a kiss to his neck, wryly glances over at the mess of a human being that becomes Geoff after three cups of coffee and pats his shoulder comfortingly. But after breakfast, they go their separate ways, and when Gavin comes back, he's gone.

Jack is out doing errands, still trying to figure out which of their contacts are really loyal and which are just vultures circling the remains of their empire. Geoff is most likely out drinking or talking to his old friends in the Roosters, gathering support to get them back on their feet. As for Gavin, he’s been out all morning talking to his circle of expatriates with less than savoury criminal profiles, searching for info on the mole. He's gotten a lead, heading back to headquarters to flesh it out. It's late afternoon, golden sunlight streaming through the apartment windows, setting the varnished floors ablaze with warmth, filtering through his hair and turning it to spun gold. He's feeling pretty good, which is why everything goes to hell when he walks into Michael’s room, intending to invite him for a swim, and it's empty.

Michael’s always been a surprisingly neat person, in the sense that he doesn't leave half eaten food lying around like Ray, or bottles of alcohol containing various amounts like Geoff, or ignore the mess in his room until it becomes too nasty to bear like Gavin. That isn't to say his room isn't lived in; the moment you step in, it's clear whose room it is, from the Master Sword replica propped in a corner, to Link’s shield cast in real steel hanging over his bed, to the little turtle in a tank he'd found on one of their bank heists and decided to keep as a souvenir and now swims happily on his bedside table.

It's all gone. Gavin feels like he's been punched in the solar plexus, all the wind knocked out of him, and his vision tunnels for a moment. The entire room is devoid of possessions, right down to the bedsheets (Michael had a favourite: it was red and said SAVAGE AS FUCK on it in blocky pink letters) and the thousand-dollar turntable Jack and Gavin had teamed up to get him. The LPs had cost another grand, but it's been worth it to see the look of pure delight on his face when he'd opened it on his birthday. It's all gone, now. Everything that made Michael’s room his, everything that physically anchored him here, is all gone.

And there, on the table, is the bundle of old fashioned dynamite Gavin had procured somewhere illegal that has a yellow smiley face stuck on the timer and Michael for some reason dangled like the world's deadliest mobile above his bed. He's taken it down, put it on the table, and underneath it a note:

I found Ray.

And on the back:

I'm sorry.

 

Gavin steps back, stumbles like he's been shot. Michael had always been closest to Ray; they'd joined the crew together, had been the first, beside Jack and Geoff, to get together, paired up on every mission, whether on a heist or in a video game, tag-teamed like a well oiled machine. Michael and Ray; they'd been inseparable, always snapping back to one another like opposite ends of a rubber band. But he never thought-

He never-

It occurs to him, dimly, that last night had been a goodbye, of sorts. He can still feel the satisfied ache of his body from the night before, and suddenly, abruptly, hates himself.

 

-

 

Jack finds him later, passed out in a pool of his own vomit, one hand still clutching the quarter-full bottle of whiskey he'd tried his damnedest to finish, hauls him to his feet. He takes the crumpled note from Gavin’s shaking hand, reads it, and utters a single, vehement, “Fuck.” But his hands are gentle as he helps Gavin into the shower, turns it on and washes the mess away. He combs his fingers through Gavin’s hair, rubs gently at his beard until the dried puke washes out, helps him change into clean clothes and tucks him into bed, and Gavin can't help but be pathetically grateful for Jack.

Geoff comes back ten minutes after Jack calls, even though he was on the other side of the city, and Gavin idly wonders how many pedestrians were run over by a bright pink sports car today. Jack stands from where he's seated by Gavin’s bedside, goes to him, and Gavin can't help but envy the easy familiarity with which they fit together, Jack’s arm curving around Geoff’s waist and Geoff leaning up while he leans down to press a kiss to his cheek. It brings him back to simpler times, when it was just the three of them, Geoff and Jack and Gavin, all crammed into that tiny apartment in downtown Los Santos, practically  living in each other's pockets.

Geoff reads the note and there's a terrible silence, before he crushes it abruptly. Gavin flinches at the sudden movement. “I'm going to kill that boy.”

“Geoff.”

“I mean it, I swear to god. I may not have the contacts I used to, but I swear I'll use up every last one of my favours just to fucking end him.”

“Geoff.” Jack looks weary, worn down, too tired for his thirty five years, like he's aged ten more in the last two months. He hugs Geoff, holds his stiff body close, and Geoff’s shaking, with anger or longing or something else entirely, and like a dam breaking, he cracks.

“I loved him. I- I loved them.” His voice is lost, broken, a shadow of what he used to be, and it physically hurts Gavin.

“I know. We all did.” And Gavin’s seen Geoff cry before, but he's never seen this side of Geoff, broken and beaten down, betrayed by everything he worked for, everything he ever held dear, and almost before the thought pops into his head, he's out of the bed, crawling towards Geoff. Gavin wraps his arms around him, hugs him as tightly as he can, as if he can hold them together, but he knows it's too late.

The bed is a twin size, barely big enough to fit all three of them, but it suits him, all of them curled into each other. It's grounding, a reminder, and Gavin sleeps without waking for the first time in weeks.

 

-

 

It's nearly two weeks later when Jack invites him out for lunch at a great hole-in-the-wall restaurant that's a well kept crew secret. Or, used to be, anyway.  They get seated, order, and are halfway through the meal, discussing mundane things, before Jack brings it up.

“Gavin, I- I talked it over with Geoff and we think you should go back to England.”

It takes a second to register. “What?”

“I- we think you should go back home. For a while, that is, just until all of this blows over.”

“Wha- but I'm- I'm helping, I'm going to find the mole! I can help rebuild the Fakes!”

“Of course you're helping, this isn't about the crew. It's- don't you think it'll just make it worse if we find out who the mole is?” Gavin opens his mouth to reply, but Jack cuts him off just as quickly. “Me and Geoff, we're worried about you. When was the last time you spoke to Dan?” He thinks back, and realises he hasn't contacted Dan once since this entire fiasco started. It must show on his face, because Jack’s already nodding. “We won't force you or anything, but it might do you good to take a break. We can hold down the fort at this end, and if anything comes up, you can take care of it over there.”

“But- but what about the Fakes?”

Jack’s smile is bittersweet and tired and resigned all at once. “Don't you see? There is no more Fake AH Crew.”

He's poised to rebut, something cheesy about there always been a FAHC as long as they're together on the tip of his tongue, when he realises Jack’s right. Without Ray’s deadpan humour and quiet kindness, Ryan’s sheepish grin and warm concern, Michael’s screaming rages and dimpled grin, there is no Fake AH Crew. It's always been the six of them, a well-oiled machine, acting as an extension of one another. Now, torn apart and brought low, there's nothing left. Jack's looking at him with something horribly like pity in his eyes, and Gavin hates it, and all of a sudden, he misses cold wet England, with its grey skies and dreary weather, the hours spent inside his warm house, tucked into Dan's side, playing campaign after campaign of Halo. He doesn't look Jack in the eye when he nods.

 

-

 

“I'm gonna miss you, kid.” Geoff’s voice is gruff, and Gavin grins, throwing his arms around his neck. “I'm just a phone call away. Or Skype, if that's what floats your boat.” They hug for a minute, maybe longer, while Jack stands to the side, smiling fondly, and Geoff kisses him on the cheek. Gavin can see tourists turning to stare, and laughs. You can tell which are tourists and which are residents of the city; Los Santos has long been taught not to even glance in the direction of the Fakes. He hugs Jack then, breathing in the comfort, burying himself in Jack’s soft warmth, before stepping away. Jack kisses him on the mouth, gentle as always, and Gavin does his damn best not to tear up. He smiles at them, and the years of glory and triumph shine through, bittersweet. Before he goes, Geoff lunges forward, kisses him open-mouthed and filthy, the type of kiss that makes him go weak at the knees and Gavin shuts his eyes, savours this last moment.

 

-

 

“Sir, we’re beginning our descent into London, please return your seat to its original position, thank you.” Gavin blinks up at the attendant blankly before obeying. As she moves on, he peers out of the window. The plane hasn't yet dipped below the cloud layer, and the setting sun is a brilliant orange, casting all manner of pinks and reds across the thick white landscape. The sky is streaked with soft pink along the darkening blue, tiny stars already visible in swathes of navy blue, and the sun bleeds peach  across the clouds as it dies, crimson flames dissolving into rosy breaths. It's a fitting send-off for the end of an era, a Viking funeral for the Fake AH Crew, princes of Los Santos, the biggest and the baddest wolves, marking out their territory with gunfire and shady deals, a glint of gold here and a hint of steel there.

He takes out his phone, keys in a familiar number.

_ >It was you, wasn't it? _

His phone buzzes almost immediately.

_I did love you. All of you._

And that's true. They’d all loved each other, but in the end it hadn't been enough to keep them together. Gavin takes a breath. Jack had been right, after all: the Fake AH Crew was no more, and just as he'd accepted that one of them had betrayed the crew, he had to accept that it was over, for good.

The plane disembarks, and Gavin stumbles off in a haze, nodding vaguely to the flight attendants as they smile, polite words blurring into a low hum of unimportance.

Still, before the Fakes, before America and the promise of gold and diamonds, before the crew that had come to be his family, Gavin had been someone. He remembers nights snuggled shoulder to shoulder with his best friend, controllers in hand, raids in Halo while they waited for their programs to take down firewall after firewall, undermining government agency after government agency. England had crumbled in their grip, the Terrors of Thame, and he’s left his kingdom long enough. Gavin stops at the exit of the airport and looks out the door, where a familiar gold-plated car is waiting, beeping impatiently, and inside, Dan’s smiling and flipping him off. He opens his carry-on, reaches past the glass bong, lovingly bubble-wrapped, past the rubber skull mask, past the bundle of dynamite with the crumpled smiley face, until his hand closes around something cold and metallic.

Outside Heathrow Airport, a thunderstorm rages on, and Gavin grins, slips on his gold sunglasses and steps back onto English soil.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it, comments appreciated! :)


End file.
